


The Monsters Without

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [35]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hollow attack, Rukia and Renji return to Soul Society, where Rukia is blindsided by news regarding the well-being of her sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monsters Without

 

The lighting is dim in the storage closet that Urahara has so _magnanimously_ lent them.

Rukia purses her lips and traps the sigh that is bursting to escape from her chest. Two sighs in a minute is enough, she decides. So, she swallows this one for the _team_ , for the sake of her companions, who are also all crammed in that tight space.

The center of their focus is Ichigo, who lies unconscious on a flayed woolen sack.

The topic that draws great speculation is best summed up by Ikkaku's rather blunt question: "What the _fuck_ was _that_?"

 _That_ being the operative word, Rukia muses as her gaze travels from Ikkaku to Yoruichi then to Renji.

There was a whole lot of _that_ which requires explaining. First, there was the hollow or hollow-hybrid. Then, there was _Ichigo_ and his rather unseemly possession.

Thank the gods for Yoruichi and Urahara showing up at the last possible second to help with containing the hollow-hybrid. They needed all the skill they could come by.

But, despite the strange monster that appeared in the park, Rukia's thoughts focus on Ichigo. Laser-focused. It is unsettling. Her stomach churns bile. Her heart drums an erratic beat in her chest. Just reflecting on the memory proves potent, as if someone has poured gasoline over her nervous system and thrown a lit match.

" _That_ ," Urahara begins, shifting his weight between legs as he leans, hips cocked up and to the side, against a case of god-knows-what, "was _unexpected_."

Rukia's eyes narrow. _Did he really just say that?_

Before she can train her features, her arms have already crossed her chest, and her lips slope into a deep frown. If she could, she would smoke him with a look, or, at the least, singe the brim of his stupidly striped hat.

For effect, Urahara draws his chin to his neck and stares out from the shadow cast by the floppy brim of his hat. A gaze never looked so hooded.

"Let him rest. We can discuss this tomorrow, when everyone is fresh."

Rukia isn't convinced. While the night rages on, there are still _plenty_ of hours for Urahara to hatch one of his harebrained _plots_ right under their noses. _Tomorrow, Ichigo will probably be missing or worse…._

"Are you sure, Mr. Urahara?" With her gentle, worried voice, Orihime's question disarms the bomb that has been ticking down in Rukia's head. "I don't mind looking after Kurosaki."

"There is no need. He will be safe here. You all need your strength." Urahara has a point.

"We could return to Soul Society and brief the Captains about what has happened," Yumichika says, providing the sense of purpose that the other Shinigami have been desperately trying to grasp.

"Shouldn't someone stay here? Just in case?" To her surprise, Rukia's voice fills the dank storage room.

"You can stay, if you want. There ain't nothing going on here for me," Ikkaku observes, voice cold and matter-of-fact.

No, Rukia supposes Ikkaku wouldn't stay, not when the threat has been neutralized. _For now_ , _at least_ , she thinks to herself. And, they can always return if something pops up on the radar. The divisions have been sending only highly-seated, competent soldiers on patrol near Karakura Town for the time being. With Aizen and his rabble-rousers on the loose, it is probably best to return and regroup.

"C'mon, Rukia," Renji murmurs, dipping his head down to ensure their privacy.

Rukia senses an urgency in her friend.

For a brief moment, she gives consideration to the tenseness that nearly strangles his voice before she discerns its cause: She is _not_ where she is supposed to be, and he is the reason for _it_.

Upon realizing this, she glares up at him and gives a slow shake of her head. If she is going to consent to this, she _doesn't_ have to go with any great eagerness. "Very well," she says with a little huff.

And, with a heart heavy with worry, she turns her back on her comrade.

 _For now_.

She will be back. She just _knows_ it. And, when has intuition ever proven her wrong?

It is all muscle memory from there. The gate opens. The tranquil shades of the Seireitei envelop her. Her feet know the steps. Her ears know the number of paces. Her thighs burn from the familiar strain of flash-step. Every landing is as she remembers. Every bound she takes is smooth and even. Then, her heart jumps, and she swears she can almost feel its beat in her teeth.

Scratching to halt, she stops and ducks into the shadows. The doors to the manor are not as she remembers. _The lights are on? At this late hour?_ she wonders to herself.

Reflexively, she twists in the humid summer air, glancing skyward. The firmament brightens, but it is still night. Morning is beginning to make its move on the horizon, but there are hours until the sun rises in the east.

 _But the house should be dark._ _Even Brother's study is usually dark at this hour._

Rukia emerges from the shadows and hops down from the garden wall. If she is idle for too long then she risks alerting the guards, not that they are _that competent_ , but the racket they will cause will surely call attention to the fact that _she has been missing for hours_.

A few carefully executed flash-steps and she is outside her door.

_I hope they haven't sent a search party for me._

A wave of guilt then hits her with the force of a wrecking ball to the gut.

What if Sister and Brother are worrying after her? She was not at her proper station for most of the day. Certainly, someone must have noticed by now? Brother is usually so observant.

Without a sound, she peels back the door. One step over the threshold and three to her futon, she thinks to herself, but, before she is in the room, the steward catches her.

"Lady Rukia?"

The paralysis that ensues is instantaneous. Her breath catches in her chest. Her eyes, wide and panicked, go dark. Even her fingers go rigid, like little claws as she lurches forward.

"Erm," she responds with the eloquence of a leaky tire before daring to move. "Yes?" her voice goes up several octaves and into a range that she usually reserves for when she is caught breaking priceless antiques.

"Milady was not in residence for dinner," he observes.

Rukia's gaze lifts to find the steward standing in the hallway. Haloed by lantern light, she can only make out his inky silhouette.

"I was called away. Work," she says in a jittery, unconvincing breath.

"Ah."

A long pause.

Oh, how she hates _those_. It's as if he is _expecting_ a _confession_. And, boy! Does she have a real knee-slapper of a confession, but she manages to hold the reins on The Truth. White knuckles and all.

The silence, however, is deafening, and, just as she begins to feel the stillness weigh on her, she cannot help but break it with a guffawing, "Yeah," unsure if he is expecting her to fall on her sword and admit to breaking Brother's command that she remain in Soul Society while the traitors are at large.

Another stifling pause blankets the room. This time, her mind races to break the tension, and her imagination begins to summon demons. _What is wrong?!_ _Did someone important die? Have I finally been excommunicated from the Kuchiki clan? The Gotei 13?_ _Soul Society?_

Usually, the steward is not so . . . _mum_.

Before her unraveling thoughts form a noose around her neck and squeeze the breath from her throat, the steward breaks the infernal quiet.

"Lady Kuchiki has—" his voice _inconveniently_ takes a nose dive into that disquieting _silence_.

"Sister?" Rukia heaves forward as if her once taut muscles have all been cut in one fell swoop, and, now, all she has is slack.

Catching herself before the inevitable stumble, she stares into the deep shadows. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and she feels as if she is hanging by a thread.

Now, the demons have broken through the door of her imagination and are storming every nook and cranny of her thoughts.

"The reports . . . they say . . . ."

It takes every shred of composure to keep her from _shaking_ the steward until the words fall from his lips like coins from a purse.

"She is dead."

Stock still. Everything goes tight, as if her body is retracting into itself. Not a muscle fiber dares to flinch. Not a word is uttered. Even her breaths are shallow and deliberate.

_Come again?_

And like that, her brain rewinds the words.

_She is dead._

Again.

_She is dead._

Once more.

_She is dead._

Wait a minute.

_The reports . . . they said . . . ._

What reports? Who are "they"? What is happening?

Frantically, she dissects the words, the steward's inflection, even the structure of his pronouncement, searching for some way to discredit it, as if it is a balloon and her word games are the necessary pin.

Rukia doesn't spare a second. She goes from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. Without a thought, she flies through the halls. Nothing makes sense. She feels like a kite without its string, like one of Brother's petals, aloft on a capricious breeze.

Her mind goes dark. Her chest feels empty. The thudding of her heart _stops_. The pounding of blood in her veins goes still. She has never liked moments like these, moments where her instincts dictate her next action.

But, that's exactly what happens as she flings back the door to Brother's study.

She doesn't know what she was expecting when she dashed out of her room and across the manor. Something, surely? Comfort, perhaps? Confirmation that this is all an elaborate misunderstanding? Camaraderie?

It doesn't hit her until the light from the study floods into the darkened hallway, where she stands. Illuminated in the bright yellow light, she stares into the room. Her heart sputters. Her throat tightens and goes dry. All she can hear is the sound of blood pounding in her ears.

The words do not form on her tongue or in her head, but she feels them, nonetheless, thundering in her chest as she finds Brother in that crowded room.

It takes only a second before she realizes what, exactly, she wants from Brother.

It takes another second for her to realize her mistake.

"Rukia," he addresses her calmly, evenly. His voice has been bled dry of anything remotely resembling _emotion_. Indeed, his whole _demeanor_ is icy, cold, calculating, unfeeling, all the things that the _others_ say about him.

All the things that _Renji_ says about him.

And, for a flicker, she can _almost hear_ the words in Renji's voice and cadence as they rip through her mental inventory.

It is unconscious, but she reads his blank stare, and she takes a fumbling step into the room and closes the door behind her.

"Lady Kuchiki—"

Rukia fights the urge to correct the mistaken voice that fills her ears and rattles around her thoughts. _No. Lady Kuchiki is my sister. I'm not her. That's not my title._

Rukia forces the protest to the back of her throat, and she swallows. Hard.

"—our deepest sympathies—"

The prickle of her knees hitting the tatami draws Rukia back from the numbness that has swallowed her, and her gaze flicks to the right to find Lord Shihōin bowing his head deeply in her direction.

Rukia blinks, but, when her eyes refocus, the image of Lord Shihōin remains. He isn't a phantom of her crumbling psyche. No. He is real, and only an arm's length away.

Immediately, she scans the room to find the heads of all Four Families have gathered along with Lord Kyoraku. And, suddenly, she feels foolish for having _barged_ into the proceedings.

"I believe this meeting is adjourned," Brother states matter-of-factly.

_How can he be so—_

Rukia doesn't want to think the word. No. But, right then, as she stares into her Brother's countenance, it is the only word that will do.

_—ruthless?_

Here she is stupidly hoping to share her grief with the only person who would know its depths only to find a blank stare and apathy in place of the comfort she was anticipating.

"Understood," Lord Kyoraku dips his head low before standing, but there is a look in his eyes as his attention shifts to Rukia.

It is a look that Rukia doesn't quite understand, but she doesn't particularly like it.

Words of condolences hang over the room, but Rukia pays them no mind. The words feel empty and hollow. Rukia feels empty and hollow, too, as her emotions well up and threaten to suffocate her, but she keeps her composure. She stuffs the swell of tears and sobs down. One breath at a time. All she can do to keep from breaking down into a public spectacle is to stare into the shadows stretching across the shoji doors.

When the strange men with their strangely placed power leave, silence finally weaves its way into the room, and Rukia begins to feel the warm sting of tears prick at her eyes. She does not sob, initially. The shock of the news as it begins to penetrate keeps her breaths even, but she can feel the storm of sorrow begin to build with each teardrop.

"Rukia." Her name sounds so soft in the crisp autumn air that she thinks she must have imagined it.

"Rukia."

She stares ahead, caught in a torrent of grief. If she moves, she'll surely shatter into a thousand pieces. No one deserves to be on the receiving end of that display. Not here. Not in the House of Kuchiki. Kuchiki Ladies do not cry. Kuchiki Ladies are above those sorts of unsightly emotions. Kuchiki Ladies are above reproach, above censure. Always elegant. Always proper. Never ridiculous.

"Rukia?"

The pressure and heat of his hand against her shoulder triggers the cracks in her resolve, and, like that, she begins to splinter. The tears come with greater frequency; their moisture dampens her sleeves as they hit her hands.

When he attempts to turn her toward him by her shoulder, a sob climbs up the back of her throat. Her body is pliant, but, before she can meet his gaze, a surge of shame hits her as if she has taken a header into a brick wall.

Now, all she can do is seek cover to conceal her sorrow, to assuage the painful burning sensation that has taken up residence in her chest.

Without a second thought, she buries her tear-soaked face in Brother's chest. There is hardness under his warm silks, but she doesn't mind. She finds respite in his arms and the steady beat of his heart. He smells of cherry blossoms and sandalwood, and, at that moment, she could not ask for a better combination.

She hopes to find her composure in his embrace, but the harder she tries, the more distant her repose becomes until it becomes apparent that now is not the time for the elegant, smooth masks of a proper lady. No, she has memories to honor and to mourn. At least, for a time. So, she slips deeper into her misery without fear or hesitation for she is tethered to her Brother at the moment, and she takes solace in that.

The child in her wants to burrow deeper, cry harder, but the solider in her tells her to retract, to pretend that this never happened. She indulges the child, but not for too long. Just long enough.

Minutes….hours…days….

Rukia has lost track of time in her void, but, at some point, between the body wracking sobs and the deluge of tears that stream down her cheeks, Brother sweeps her up in his arms and carries her to bed.

He tucks her in, wipes her cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve, and, just as he begins to leave, she stays him. Her fingers hook into the fall of his robs, and, helplessly, she pleads for him to watch over her for the night. The cry for comfort is made in silence. Pained, red-rimmed eyes express the sentiments that her mouth is either unwilling or unable to speak.

Silently, Brother obliges her request, remaining at her side until she falls asleep.

When he is certain that she is in a deep slumber, he stands, relishing the feeling of his muscles stretching after the prolonged stillness at Rukia's bedside.

Tracing the halls, he keenly observes the shadows fanning across the floor and up the walls are beginning to change. The thick midnight blues become lavender and diffuse.

The dawn breaks outside the manor's walls, which means that it will be only a matter of time before well-wishers intrude. How he dreads the reaction to the news of his wife's passing. He cannot suffer the feigns and the falsities of his family and their ilk.

Sliding back the door to his quarters, Byakuya closes his eyes, and he inhales a long breath.

The air is light now. He can almost _taste_ the morning's rays. He can almost _hear the words_. Poisonous, captious words. Words that seem benign on the surface, but cut deep on reflection. At the thought of the hours spent in the company of ill-intentioned family and allies, his nerves shoot angry pulses up and down his arms, and his muscles begin to sag.

How is he to trust in this conceit? To place his faith in one man's honor?

If there's one thing Byakuya has come to learn in his many _long_ years, it is that no man is deserving of blind trust. Desires, ambitions, raw self-interest—when a man corrupts, he tends to corrupt completely.

Indeed, Byakuya has learned that the true monsters do not lurk within the shade, but rather without it. And, that's the rub. He must trust a man whose title recommends him at a time when Soul Society is collectively attempting to rebuild itself because it blindly placed its trust in men with titles.

Byakuya releases his breath and opens his eyes.

The doors are open to the garden. They weren't before, when twilight cloaked the splendor of the flora. But, now, in the early morning light, the garden looks like it has caught flame, and he couldn't imagine it any other way.

. . . .

 _Thunk_.

She hears the sound before turning to her side. If the blistering brilliance of the sun's rays cannot induce her to peel back her eyelids, hell if the sound of rocks pelting the wooden frame of her garden door will.

_Thunk!_

That one probably did damage, she thinks to herself as she pulls the sheets over her head and curls into herself so that the edges of the covers stretch tautly across her body. At this point, Rukia is seriously considering whether _she can_ open her eyes. They feel heavy and swollen from all the crying the night before, and she is fairly certain a nice crust is sealing them shut. It would probably hurt to blink them open.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk._

He's blitzing her door now. Briefly, she wonders if one of the stones will come singing through the rice paper. _Wouldn't Brother be impressed?_ she muses darkly to herself. _Likely not._

"Rukia!"

Ah, just when she thinks her comrade will do away with pleasantries like _subtly_ he begins shouting her name for the manor's residents and _guards_ to hear.

 _"Where are the guards when you need them?"_ she murmurs softly to herself as she burrows her head deeper into her pillow, hoping it will somehow blot out the sound of Renji's voice.

"Rukia!" he calls again, this time drawing out her name a beat or _twenty_ longer than necessary.

"Err," she growls before succumbing to the throbbing annoyance of hearing her name chanted at various intervals and volume outside her door. "What?!" she grouses as she opens her eyes.

Just as she suspected, a prickle of pain radiates across her eyelids as she blinks back the sleep from her eyes. Her eyes feel heavy, itchy, dry, and _sore_.

"Renji Abarai!" she grumbles to herself as she pads across the floor to the door and throws it open. "What do you want?"

Winding up for what looks like a fast pitch with a rock the size of a grapefruit, Renji stops mid-arch and stares at her. Dumbfounded. "Rukia?" A tinge of concern softens the edge to his voice that was once so pronounced when he last called her name. "You alright?"

Her brows pull together, and she attempts to _glare_ at him through the swollen slits that are her eyes.

"You get stung by a bee or something?"

"What?!"

"Your eyes. They look," he pauses, apparently searching his mental inventory for a nice way to communicate the fact that she looks like _shit._ "Well," he presses his lips together and furrows his brow, "You look _terrible_."

Her expression flat-lines. Her lips pull into a tight, compact line, and her brows lower over a narrowed, albeit puffy, gaze.

"You are vulgar," she hisses. "You know that?" she spits the words, hot and caustic, as if she expects him to _agree_.

Unsurprisingly, her venom garners a confused look. "Well, that's not very nice," he retorts, befuddled by Rukia's sudden turn for the spiteful, "especially, since I came all the way here, risking life and limb, to take you back to the World of the Living."

"Haven't you heard?!" she cries, voice breaking, and eyes threatening to tear at any second. Surely, he must've heard? Right?! Is he just torturing her? Is this some sort of cruel joke?

Renji stares at her with that dim look on his face—the very one that rather earnestly announces that he hasn't the foggiest idea of what she is talking about. "Eh?"

"Sister," she manages to put the first word together without shedding her indignation or resolve, but, when the rest of the words fail to come out, she crumbles like an autumn leaf.

"Lady Kuchiki?" Renji asks, filling the pregnant pause, but his stare is uncomprehending. Fear pulls at the lines of his face, as if he is _waiting_ for bad news.

Rukia chokes back a wet sob, and, holding her breath, she silently shakes her head. Words bubble and foam at the back of her throat, but she cannot force them out without releasing a cry. She settles for a small whimper before retreating into her room.

"I'm sorry," she squeezes out the apology before shutting the door behind her.


End file.
